


Lockdown

by Ann7121



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26577868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann7121/pseuds/Ann7121
Summary: The crew of the Liberator, for unspecified but author driven reasons, are subjected to a period of quarantine and cope with it in entirely predictable ways.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Lockdown

Jenna made her way to the food dispenser and punched in the numbers for morning her glass of orange juice and plate of scrambled egg. She waited, yawning and scrubbing her fingers through her too long hair... but nothing happened.

“Oh for... what’s going on now?” she muttered crossly kicking the side of the machine in the manner prescribed by all non techies for repairing something broken. All that happened here was that part of the side fell off. Looking down she realised that the dispenser had had several metres of wires pulled out, and these were strewn about the floor like the entrails of a disembodied creature. 

Sighing, she made her way to the kitchen. Eggs were off the menu, but she might be able to rustle up a piece of toast. She pushed open the door, coughing a little as a cloud of white particles, and a blast of martial music, engulfed her. As the air cleared she could make out the apron-ed form of Blake, his shock of hair crammed into a sort of floppy white hat pounding and pummelling a piece of dough. The surfaces around him were covered by tins containing a variety of burnt offerings. Sighing some more, she moved across to the bread bin, but stopped as Blake shook his head vigorously, mouthing something and motioning to a particularly blackened dish, charcoaled slices of bread rising out of what might have been some sort of batter. No toast then. She’d have to make do with chocolate. Again. What this enforced isolation was doing to her waistline she hadn’t dared find out. Thank goodness the wardrobe room contained pants a little more forgiving than her usual leathers.

Her cabin was next to Gan’s but although she listened as she entered ,she could hear no sound from him. “Please, please, please, be asleep,” she begged silently, as she retrieved one of her stashed chocolate bars from her sock drawer, broke off a piece and lay down on the bed, breathing deeply with pleasure as the rich, dark, slightly bitter square slowly dissolved in her mouth. 

She’d just closed her eyes when it began. Da... da... dada... DAH. Da... da... dada... DAH. Da... da... dada... DAH. Groaning she tried to bury her head in her pillows but it did little to mask the noise. “It’s good he’s found something to occupy him” jostled in her head with the ignoble, “If he keeps this up, I’ll ram his drum sticks where the sun don’t shine.” Ignoble won, and to prevent herself from acting on the impulse, she crammed the rest of the bar in her mouth and fled the room, the Da... da... dada... DAH’s gradually fading in volume as she neared the rec room. A work-out on the treadmill would do her, and her waistline, the world of good.

The scene that met her eyes was unusual to say the least. The treadmill had lost is tread, the rowing machine was without its pull mechanism and Cally, her hair corkscrewing from her head in a fetching shade of purple that also covered half her face and a good proportion of the white dress she was wearing, was holding a pot containing the rest of the fetching purple paint. As Jenna watched, aghast, she hurled it at the wall where it splattered and dripped, joining the kaleidoscope of colours already splattered and dripping down it. Cally stepped back, running an arm across her sweating face, (depositing another layer of purple in the process) and gazed with satisfaction at the mess.

“What’s... um... what’s going on here then, Cally?” Jenna asked gently.

“Pollocks,” Cally muttered briefly, picking up a pot of green paint, twirling in a pirouette and finishing the movement by launching its contents to join the rest of the paint.

“I was only asking. It does seem rather a silly though... oh Pollocks, not... you didn’t mean bol... oh. What’s a Pollock, then?” Jenna was beginning to suspect that Cally was undergoing some sort of alien possession and was quite keen to know if a Pollock represented a general as well as a specific danger.

“Jackson Pollock. Old Calendar action painter. His method is very good for releasing stress. Do you want to join me?”

“I’ll pass thank you.” Jenna stepped back as Cally moved towards her, turned and then ran full tilt at the wall, launching several litres of red paint as she ran. “Wow. That’s a lot of stress, you’re releasing. I’ll just...” she backed carefully but hastily towards the door . “Have fun,” she called as she vacated the room.

Out in the corridor she waited for a few minutes until the dizziness brought on by the paint fumes cleared. Where could she go to escape this madness? Surely the flight deck would be calm and if she went there she could check if Zen was okay. But as she approached it, she was greeted by a screeching, clamorous clatter. Cautiously she crept up to the archway, peered in and froze. 

A metallic headless figure, useless ‘arms’ stuck outside from its side (the handle of the rowing machine?) was trying and failing to ascend the steps, repeatedly bashing against them, while a light flashed from a box incongruously placed in what would be the groin area of a human. Avon, wild eyed, pale, his long hair caught back from his face with a band, was trying, desperately to force what looked like a saucepan filled with twinkling fairy lights onto the creature’s torso, whilst in the background, she could hear Orac laughing manically and exclaiming, “Accept your domination, Avon. Surrender to your God.” There was an abrupt bang, Avon was catapulted backwards, and all the lights went out. 

Resignedly, Jenna inched past the sparking, fizzing metal... thing..., paused briefly to check that Avon had a pulse, and then sat down on the sofa, leaned back and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“How are you doing Zen?” she asked, “Going mad like the rest of us?”

+I am finding new pathways to explore, Jenna Stannis+ Zen’s lights pulsed in a rhythm that seemed unusually rapid and random, almost... enthusiastic. Never-the-less it’s tone remained measured as it continued: +I have been writing poetry. Here is my latest opus:

If I were human, you and I could both endeavour  
To enjoy a glass of brown ale beside a babbling river  
We’d lie together listening to it’s cool refreshing ripple  
You in my arms, my head resting on your nip...+

“Lovely, Zen.” Jenna wasn’t going to muck about. “But I haven’t time just now. I need to find Vila as a matter of urgency. Where is he at the moment?” 

+Vila Restal is currently to be found in shuttle bay two. But I do not think you need to worry. He appears to be remarkably chilled.+

“That’s what I hoped,” Jenna muttered as she scooted from the deck, just as Zen began sonorously +I wandered, lonely as an asteroid... that... steroid?... paranoid?... haemorrhoid?+

***  
“Make mine a large one,” she ordered as she threw herself down beside an enviably sozzled Vila. After she’d finished coughing, she sighed, this time with relief, and sank her head down, only to raise it suddenly as an unwelcome thought intruded: “ I hope you’ve got a good supply, Vila. We’ve got three more weeks of this xxx!!! quarantine to survive.”


End file.
